Monsters
by BeatrixKaxprax
Summary: All he had ever wanted was to be normal. To feel the love and acceptance that the world, it seemed, could never give him. But now, he is finished hiding in the shadows. It's time to step into the light and let the world see what its fear and hatred has created. He will make it feel his pain and his rage, and nothing, not even the Batman, will stand in his way.
1. Bite

_Disclaimer:_ _I do not own any of the characters, brands, or places from DC comics. Also, this story will contain graphic violent imagery._

 **GOTHAM CITY SEWERS**

The darkness sheathed the corridor like a velvet curtain. At night, no light peeked through the openings of the infrastructure, resulting in an impenetrable blackness. Not that it mattered. Waylon had spent his life in dark places. Closets, prison cells, sewers… anywhere to keep the dainty and fragile public from witnessing his deformity.

Doctors said he was a victim of excessive epidermal keratinization, but everyone else had a different idea. To them, he was Waylon the freak, the monstrosity, the abomination. They whipped him, cowed him, told him he was worthless in every way imaginable. However, in the darkness, things were different. Protected from the public's consternation, he was vitalized. He was able to mold and shape his surroundings, his personality, his _destiny_ , as he could never do in the light.

When he stepped into the light… when people saw him, they screamed. They ran. Some even tried to fight. However, they never considered what they were screaming at or running from. Many said they were running from a mindless monster. Others thought it was a calculating sociopath. A few even said it was a demon. All of them were wrong, though. Despite his monstrous appearance, the only thing he had ever been was a scared little boy who couldn't understand why the world hated him so passionately. Soon, Waylon began to return the world's hate with equal fervor. Fury boiled inside of him day and night. The need to take revenge, to return the suffering the world had given him, had grown into an aching hunger.

Sweet release came in the form of an earthquake. It was the strongest Gotham had seen in half a century, and the city was unprepared. The ground thrashed and shook, knocking bricks from the ceiling into the river of wastewater below. With a sharp crack, one of the lesser sewer pipes split, baring the underside of the sidewalk infrastructure. At first, Waylon thought nothing of it, only to avoid the crack in case an aftershock brought down more debris.

However, within a few days, he heard voices creeping through the sewer halls. He followed them and saw bobbing rays of light illuminating the walls. Men in reflective outfits were crowded around the crack. Groaning, he clutched his head. Their shrill voices were like ice picks driven into his brain.

"Look at this sucker! Two feet clear across! We'll have to shut down the whole damn street."

"Are you crazy? The mayor has an election coming up. You think he's just gonna let us shut down one of the busiest streets in Gotham? Poor bastard wouldn't spit right now if he thought it'd bring his approval rating down."

"Yeah, and what if this crack gives way and the street caves in? He'll just be everybody's favorite."

Waylon had heard enough, and retreated into the waters. More people would be coming down into the sewers to repair the crack. He decided not to visit this area again. Too much attention was dangerous.

A new voice cut in, sharper and louder than the rest.

"What the hell's that? Barry, shine your light over there!"

Suddenly, two lights were on him; his eyes burned from the brightness. As much as he wanted to run away, he couldn't move. The sheer terror of the light, of their faces, of being _seen_ , had paralyzed him. The crew's facial expressions were almost comical. Their mouths were perfect circles, as were their eyes. The blood had drained from their faces, turning them ghostly white. To Waylon, they resembled the mimes that pretended they were trapped in an invisible box. For an entire minute, the rushing sewer water was the only sound that filled the corridors.

Then, one of the crew members began to stutter:

"M…m…m-monster."

Other crew members followed suit, until the muttering turned into wails that filled the catacombs.

"Monster!"

" _Monster!_ "

"MONSTER!"

It was as if they were chanting to drive away an evil force. Perhaps if they chanted loud enough, it would destroy the horrible creature in front of them.

"MONSTER!"

"MONSTER!"

" _MONSTER!_ "

Waylon groaned and clutched his head. The noise, the pain, the humiliation… he couldn't take it. His head felt like it was being split down the middle. He had to do something, had to make them stop. That fury, the rage he had suppressed for so long burst out of him like wildfire. They were the ones who did this to him, with their ridiculous fear and unfounded condemnation. Without so much as a word to them, he had once again become Waylon the freak. No, it couldn't happen again. He needed to show them who he was, what he was.

With a primal scream, Waylon lunged at the nearest crew member, a short, pudgy man in coveralls. He tried to run away, but it did no good. Waylon's teeth sunk into his shoulder, and he clenched his jaw, bringing down the full force of his bite. He could feel the bones crunch between his teeth. It was a good feeling, like that of eating popcorn at the movie theatre. The man caught in his teeth screamed. Other crew members began striking Waylon with wrenches, hammers, and other small tools they had on hand. Each one was blocked effortlessly by his thick, reptilian skin.

Waylon released his bite on the man's shoulder, but the screaming didn't subside. With each wail, the pain in his head increased ten-fold. It was almost unbearable. Finally, he gripped the pudgy man, rotated him, and engulfed his entire head. His teeth effortlessly sliced through the soft neck tissue, cutting through bone and muscle until the head was completely severed. He maneuvered the head around in his mouth and bit it in half. The skull cracked like a peanut shell, and the gelatinous brains began to leak out over his tongue. He chewed until the head was pulverized enough to swallow.

The rest of the crew had run, but he could hear them farther down. They were attempting to find their way out, and judging from their harsh whispers, they had gotten lost. One meekly suggested turning the flashlights on but was immediately shot down. Light would attract the beast's attention, said the others. Waylon chuckled to himself. The darkness had molded his body just as it had shaped his mind. It had eroded his eyes, making them weak from years of disuse. However, it brought his other senses to life. He could hear the tiniest breaths the other crew members took, the frantic hisses they passed from one to another. He could smell the perspiration on their brows, the scent trails they left by means of a few skin cells. In darkness or light, Waylon had all he needed to find them.

Silently gliding through the water, he closed in on the crew. They were quiet now, huddled together on one of walking paths built above the sewer water. As he prepared to lunge, Waylon stopped himself. The guilt of what he had done came upon him. Vicious decapitation, premeditated murder… he was becoming the savage people had always told him he was. Then, rage exploded back to the surface. _They_ were the monsters. _They_ were the ones who had forced a fight out of him, who had always attacked him without the slightest provocation. They _deserved_ to feel his wrath.

Waylon lunged.

...

It was over in a matter of minutes. The time passed in a blur, with only small details staying clear. The snapping of bone, the squish of muscle, ragged screams, and waterfalls of blood. His abdomen protruding, Waylon dragged himself to his nest, deep within the heart of the sewer. He collapsed onto the ratty blankets that served as his bed, feeling the meat shift comfortably in his stomach. It occurred to him that there would be others investigating the missing crew. People with blood and muscle and bone, people with screams to be heard and flesh to be ripped.

Keeping that thought in his mind, Waylon Jones laughed himself to sleep.


	2. Carnage

5

 **WAYNE MANOR**

An iron pan sizzled as the smell of maple bacon filled the kitchen. Meanwhile, Jamaican coffee beans were ground, pressed, and brewed. As it was every morning, breakfast was prepared with near surgical precision. Alfred found that such precision served him well, no matter his occupation. He had worn many hats during his long life. From a young actor on the West End stage to a special agent in M15, his versatile career had found its resting point in the home of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

The tabloids loved to romanticize the Waynes. They were Gotham's fallen stars, the beautiful angels that advanced the city, only to be cut down in their prime. Newspapers rarely knew people in the way their hired help did. Alfred had found that the worst way to find out information about a man, especially a rich man, was to ask him. Lying came to the rich as easily as eating and breathing. If someone truly wanted information, they needed only to stay quiet.

During his time with Thomas and Martha, Alfred had only addressed them with customary butler speak. Would you like more tea? May I help you with your coat? Master, madam, sir, Miss… a maddening litany he repeated day in and day out. However, the Waynes had told him far more than their superficial commands, more than either of them realized.

If he were to sit down with one of these romantic reporters, he could tell him many things. For example, he could say that Thomas Wayne was a womanizer who had committed at least ten acts of infidelity and had fathered at least two bastards. He could also tell him that Martha Wayne was a drunkard who tried to gamble her husband's money away as quickly as he could make it. Of course, the reporter would not tolerate such slander of his idols. Alfred would be called an ungrateful old fool. Not that it mattered now. Thomas and Martha were dead, and their demons had died with them.

However, despite all their sins, the Waynes had always kept one redeeming quality: they loved their son. It wasn't hard to see why. Bruce had barely survived infancy. He was born premature and highly underweight, with an emaciated frame that seemed it would break with the slightest touch. Within forty-eight hours, he had contracted pneumonia. Alfred had watched his silent body in the incubator, his tiny chest moving so slightly it appeared nearly still. At any moment, he expected the small, labored breaths to cease and the heartrate to flat line. But it hadn't.

It was a slow process, but each day, the breaths grew stronger and more frequent. After nearly a month in the incubator, Bruce's silence finally broke. Alfred watched as he balled his tiny fists, contorted his features, and released the most beautiful cry the butler had ever heard. From that moment on, Alfred had known the boy was special. There was always something special about those who cheated death at such a young age.

However, his strength became less apparent as the boy grew. The typical childhood sickliness, in addition to his parents' ceaseless pampering, created a fragile child who could barely lift his bowl of morning cereal. There were days when Alfred wished he could have stayed that way. When Bruce limped out of the Batmobile after a fight with Bane… when he would sit at his computer for nearly twenty-four consecutive hours, trying to find a pattern in the Joker's madness… when he bore so much weight on his shoulders it was a wonder he didn't collapse… and when he bore too much weight and did collapse.

Alfred's thoughts were broken as Bruce rushed in, throwing on a jacket and adjusting his tie.

"Alfred, where's my iPad? It has the charts I need for the meeting."

"It's in the master bedroom, top drawer of your nightstand, underneath your chargers, sir."

"Thanks."

He grabbed the coffee and bacon Alfred had set out and headed for the bedroom. The butler sighed. Yes, that soft little boy was long forgotten. He had been heated and wrought into a man as cold and hard as the city he fought to protect. Much like Alfred, he wore many different hats. The brilliant businessman who kept Wayne Enterprises running like a well-oiled machine, the philanthropist who never met a cause he wouldn't support, and the drunken party boy that always appeared with a different woman on his arm. Each persona was a mask he could change at a moment's notice.

Only Alfred knew the true man, who could hardly be called a man at all. He was as solid as iron, able to beat the city's worst to a bloody pulp. Then, in the same breath, he could take a trembling child into his arms and give him peace, relieving all of his worries and fears in an instant. Alfred ceased his thoughts and robotically continued his routine. Analyzing the Batman was an impossible task. He had always found it easier to leave Bruce to his brooding and clean up his mess.

 **WAYNE ENTERPRISES**

Bruce stepped into his office and shut the door behind him. He took a moment to appreciate the quiet darkness that filled the room. The space was massive, containing a bar and a television lounge. Not that he used any of these features himself; they were purely negotiation tactics. Alcohol and television softened the mind, inhibiting business men's intuition and making it far easier to negotiate a favorable deal.

He strode past these novelties to the far wall. It had been replaced with an enormous window overlooking the Gotham River. As he peered out the window, he noticed peculiar smudges left on the glass. Slowly, he breathed onto it. As the glass clouded, the words "TURN AROUND" appeared.

He smirked. "You need to work on your breathing, Dick. I've known you were here since I came through the door."

A groan was heard from the ceiling. One of the tiles slid back, and Nightwing dropped gracefully onto the desk. "And my life's dream to surprise the Batman remains yet unfulfilled."

"You shouldn't have come here," Bruce said, instantly stern. "It's too risky. Someone could see us talking to one another."

"Yup. Because the halls are so crowded at 11:00 P.M. And just imagine all of the people with access to your office security cameras. There's Lucius… oh wait, he's one of ours. Well then, Alfred… wait. No, he's ours, too. That just leaves you and me, and I can't see either of us spilling the beans any time soon. Relax, Bruce. And look, I come bearing gifts."

Nightwing pulled a flash drive out of his belt and plugged it into the computer. Soon, pictures arranged themselves across the screen. Bruce was no stranger to atrocities, but he still felt vomit rising in his throat. Quickly, he choked it down and studied the photographs. There were six of them, taken inside the sewers. They showed a ladder leading down to a narrow walkway for maintenance crews.

Along the walkway, mutilated body parts were scattered about. He could see three arms with tendons still clinging to the shoulder. A torso lay in the middle; the abdomen had been ripped open and the internal organs were spread across it. Closest to the camera, a disembodied head lay on its side with part of the spine protruding from the neck. Both of its eyes had been ripped out.

Bruce studied the background of the photographs. "This is the sewer system under Holdcroft Boulevard," he said.

"Ah yes, the one that runs under the GCPD," Nightwing sighed. "So many good memories swimming through the river of..."

"My point is, Dick, this occurred in Gotham. I don't see how Blüdhaven is involved. Therefore, I don't see what you are doing here."

Nightwing was unfazed. "Well, you're right about one thing, Bruce. _This_ happened in Gotham. However, just yesterday, a nice Blüdhaven lady's toilet backed up and began spewing blood and muscle bits. _That_ is why I'm here. Oh yeah, not to mention the fact that seven people were ripped limb from limb in a sewer that you arguably spend more time in than your own home. Doesn't that strike you as the teeniest, tiniest bit strange?"

"What do the cops have to say at this point?" Bruce asked. Nightwing took his changing the topic as an apology and awarded himself a mental point. Victories over the Batman were a rare and treasured occurrence.

"Unsurprisingly, they're calling it an animal attack. No one's sure what type…"

"It was a human."

"Come again?"

"It wasn't an animal."

"Bruce, it's obvious that the mutilations were done pre-mortem. The toxicology reports we have don't indicate any kind of drugs in their systems. These victims were alive and conscious when they were killed. Do you happen to know a person who can reduce seven, able-bodied people to mincemeat? Other than you, of course."

"Why do animals kill, Dick?"

"What?"

"Lions, wolves, bears… do they kill for fun?"

"No, they kill for food."

"Exactly, and they don't waste anything. If they can eat it, they will. Look at the parts that were left behind. Deltoids, quadriceps, internal organs. Some of the tastiest parts left for the rats. Judging from their condition, I assume it's been about a week since the murders occurred. Even if an animal had eaten its fill after the first attack, it would have come back for the rest by now. Furthermore, it would have attacked anyone or anything who came near the territory. So why didn't this one?"

"Bruce, I don't…"

"I'm not done, Dick. Look at the nature of the attacks. When animals attack, they're precise and calculating. They aim for the throat, the Achilles tendon, whatever will take you down the fastest. There's nothing organized about these killings. The assailant was just tearing into whatever meat he could get to first. He snapped, and then he ran. I'm not saying this was your average human, but it was something with enough sense to know he had made a mistake. Then, he had enough control to deny animalistic instinct to feed and fled the scene."

After a moment of silence, Nightwing shook his head and leaped onto the desk. He shot his grappling hook into the opening he had left in the ceiling. Taking one last look at Bruce, he said, "The cops and animal control should finish their investigation soon. I'll be in touch. In the meantime, I suggest you get better at interrogating wild animals. I hear it's pretty hard to make them talk."

He then pulled the trigger on his grappling hook and was lifted into the ceiling. The opening in the ceiling closed as the tile slid back into its rightful place. Bruce was left to stare at the gruesome imagery on the screen. His eyes scanned the images, recording the details of each mutilation. Suddenly, they paused on the bottom middle photo, the one of the head with its eyes ripped out. The picture was taken with the river of sewage in the background. He zoomed in on the river, trying to get a better look at what had piqued his interest. The image was grainy, but he could see a dark mass with fuzzy yellow patches hovering above the water. _Probably a piece of reflective material from the victims_ , he thought. Still, he adjusted the contrast and sharpness of the photo.

As the image came into focus, Bruce clenched his fist and stood up. Turning to the window, he pulled out his phone and hit his first speed dial key. "Something you want, sir?" a stout, British voice replied from the other end.

"Prepare the bat suit, Alfred. I'll be taking a trip down below tonight."

"Ugh, the sewer again? Are you sure?"

"I'm afraid so."

Bruce turned around and stared at the computer screen. Though the image was pixelated, he could clearly see two yellow eyes staring back.


	3. Close Encounter

**DEEP WITHIN THE SEWERS**

They had come, just like he knew they would. All throughout his sewer, cameras had flashed and harsh voices had reverberated. He could smell their flesh and bone and hear their blood rushing through their bodies. There was temptation… such sweet temptation. He had even come close to them, just close enough to taste the pheromones their bodies emitted. However, he had restrained himself; the oily metal scent of their guns and bullets was also present. Waylon knew that his skin was stronger than that of most men. The blunt instruments with which his previous meal had attacked him hadn't even made an impact. But, he wasn't sure he could withstand a gunshot, so for the time being, it was best to exercise caution. Others would be along who were not as heavily armed.

Ghosting through the water, Waylon approached his nest. For the first time in a while, he paused over the quilt on top of his blanket pile. It was almost unrecognizable from the years it had spent in the grime and refuse, but the pattern underneath could still be felt. Roses were sewn into the middle of the quilt, with their green stems contorting and interweaving to form a frame around the rest of the blanket. His mother had sewn it for him when he was five years old. Every day, he had come home from school, having endured a day of jeers and mockery and disgusted looks from both classmates and teachers. With tears streaking down his face, he would sit at her feet while she sewed that quilt. He would caress the fabric, feel the softness of the padding that she stuffed inside. Then, he would look at her, the only person who had ever truly loved him, and for a moment, everything wouldn't seem quite so bad.

Shaking his head, Waylon rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Those days of tenderness were long gone, just like his mother. The rest of the world had no such softness for him, so he had learned to respond in kind. He closed his eyes, planning to slip into as deep a sleep as he could manage.

Suddenly, skittering could be heard throughout the sewer chamber. Thousands of rats were instantly on the move, running like one cohesive organism as they worked their way through the pipes. Waylon stood up and listened to the direction of the flow. Slipping into the water, he began to travel in the direction opposite the rats. He was careful to make as little noise as possible so they wouldn't scatter. They only moved like this when an intruder was nearby, and their stream would lead Waylon precisely to his location.

He followed the sound for several meters down the main sewer channel, then heard it branching off into one of the lesser pipes. Climbing out of the water, he was forced to crouch to accommodate the smaller size of the pipe. As quietly as the echoing concrete would allow, he continued through the intricate network of pipes until a voice stopped him dead.

"Alfred, send me the schematics for the entire Gotham sewer system."

"I thought you would have it memorized by now, sir," a British man replied, sounding as if he were on the other end of a phone call.

"I'm heading into new territory. If this thing has managed to escape my attention thus far, it can't be using the main sewer pipes."

"As you wish, sir."

Waylon felt himself flinch at the words "this thing." It was hardly the most offensive thing he'd been called, but something about how the man said it made his skin crawl. He felt a familiar rage start to boil in his stomach. His heart began to pound as his tongue ran over his teeth. He edged closer to the man, barely making a sound. Just as he was deciding where his first bite would land, a disturbing thought occurred to him. The man had made no mention of the people Waylon had killed. He wasn't even near where the attack took place. The only person the man had mentioned was Waylon himself. He wasn't looking into the murders at all. He was looking for _him_.

For the first time since he had attacked the sewer workers, Waylon felt truly afraid. This man knew what he had done to them. He knew that he had ripped people apart. Perhaps he even knew he had eaten them. Despite all this, he still came looking for him… alone. What kind of man would even entertain the thought of hunting him? He may be an overconfident hunter searching for his next trophy, or a lunatic suffering from a heroic delusion of grandeur. Waylon began to calm himself down. He was most likely just a man who was out of his depth, and he would be easily dealt with.

Footsteps echoed as the man began to move. Thankfully, he started in the direction away from Waylon. Waylon allowed him to gain a several meter lead before following him. The man wove his way through the maze of pipes, at times touching base with the British man on his phone. An hour passed, and Waylon felt his confidence building. He had managed not to raise alarm. His hearing was obviously superior, meaning he could easily trace the man while remaining untraceable himself. As the minutes ticked by, Waylon felt his stomach beginning to growl.

 **. . . . .**

 _It's getting closer_ , he thought. The sounds were faint, but Bruce could hear the gentle nudging and scraping across the concrete. It was so quiet that, at times, he wasn't convinced anything was following him at all. However, the noises had gotten louder throughout his investigation, and there was now no doubt in his mind. Bruce pondered exactly what might be behind him. From the sounds he heard, he could tell it was large, even enormous. Yet, it had enough control over its body mass to maintain a reasonable level of stealth, indicating its girth came from muscle, as opposed to fat.

He decided against engaging it. It became more insistent as time passed. Soon, it would be confident enough to strike.

 **. . . . .**

Closer and closer he edged… Waylon felt ashamed for letting his fear get the better of him earlier. This was only a normal man. The sooner he was dealt with, the better. Crouching to all fours, Waylon charged towards him. Instantly, he felt a slight pain in his shoulder. He smirked. _So that's the best you've got?_ However, within seconds, electricity was coursing through his body, causing him to collapse to the ground in a convulsing heap.

 **. . . . .**

Bruce blinked, then blinked again. He almost didn't believe the thing lying in front of him could be real. It had the general shape of a man, but was monstrous in size. When fully erect, it would have been nearly ten feet tall, and its arm span was well over six. But, its most shocking feature by far was its skin. It was covered in thick scales, giving it a reptilian appearance. As Bruce shined a light in its eyes, he could see they were a clouded, milky yellow.

Suddenly, the creature exploded off the ground. It blindly swung its claws in all directions. Bruce was forced to lunge backwards to avoid being sliced. After a moment, it appeared to regain its bearings and sprinted away. Giving chase, Bruce followed it through the network of pipes. He was barely able to keep up. The speed of the thing was incredible. Within minutes, they were approaching the main sewer pipe. At the end of the tunnel was a steep drop into the rushing sewer water below.

Without slowing down, the creature dove in. Bruce stopped short of the edge of the tunnel and peered into the murky depths. There was no sign of the creature from the surface. Its weightlessness in the water would make it far more lethal; diving in after it would be suicide.

Swinging across the tunnel, Bruce hastened to make his way to the surface. He'd known this thing would be strong, but its durability had caught him completely off guard. His shock batarangs could knock Bane out for several hours, but this… this crocodile man was barely down fifteen seconds.

"Alfred," he called, "Tell Lucius to meet me tomorrow morning in the Batcave."

"I believe Mr. Fox is negotiating with investors from 8:00 to…"

"Cancel that."

"This will be the third time, sir. They won't be happy, and Mr. Fox won't either for that matter."

"I need my arsenal upgraded. He won't stay mad for long.


End file.
